


The Test of Melancholy

by VTheTrashKing



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Acceptance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Language of Flowers, Loosely Based on Persona 2, M/M, Mentioned Claude von Riegan, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Shadows (Persona Series), Spoilers for Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Temporary Character Death, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28219887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VTheTrashKing/pseuds/VTheTrashKing
Summary: Nearing the last door of Sylvain's haunting dungeon, Felix steps up to the plate, steeling himself to fight whatever lies behind the door.Felix gently opens the door, finding something, or rather, someone he hardly expected.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	The Test of Melancholy

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> After playing less than half of Persona 2, I got inspired to write this!
> 
> So, I hope you enjoy this!

The Blue Lions all stood before a cracked stone door. Rusted chains wrapped around the door, idly clinking and rattling against each other. Near the broken black marble floor, the door was littered with delicate flowers and swaying ferns. Dedue eyed the plant life, his stoic face subtly twisting into a pained grimace. With a harsh sigh and a troubled voice, the flowers were given names, adding onto the dreadful picture the dungeon created. Tufts yellow and striped carnations were peppered along the floor, one or two zinnias were hidden and almost overpowered by the clusters of Black Dahlias. Sky and white-blue Forget-Me-Nots crept up from the floor, bunching around the Black Dahlias and spiraling a fair bit against the wall. Uncut shrubs of wormwood lined up with a non-existent doorframe. It was a vibrant, beautiful garden, with the colors of the bright blue sky, the sun. It was breathtaking, not for its surface-level beauty, but for the message written on each flower petal, each paper thin leaf.

Annette and Mercedes glanced down at the pristine purple carpet leading to the door. Annette hugged herself, shaking as she teared up. Mercedes laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. Ashe stared up at the swinging black glass chandeliers, a neutral expression on his freckled face. Angry, pinched eyebrows and stinging eyes ruined his white canvas, giving away what he truly felt. Ingrid stared straight ahead, shoulders set high, her gloved right hand tightly, _tightly_ gripping the pole of her lance. Sylvain slightly parted his lips, not a single sound coming out. He stopped speaking altogether hours ago. The boar looked like he would explode, fury and guilt rolling off his skin.

Felix couldn’t blame him. He couldn’t blame any of the Blue Lions.

Not when rows of still images played out a short story, or outright enacted a stage play on blood red walls. It was burned into Felix’s mind. All of it.

* * *

A plush doll with wild, fiery red soft twisted strings for hair, light pink circles for cheeks, a tiny caramel colored smile and pitch black buttons for eyes. It being placed on a chair, its head and upper body slipping down as though it wasn’t properly supported by the back of the wooden chair, a bright spotlight dooming it for years to come. The fabric used as the skin mottling, blue or yellowing rough textured patches stitched in by the hands of a cruel brother. The doll being abandoned under a gray clay well and mounds of cotton, huddled into a ball, small crystal blue marbles lining its pitch black eyes, never to fall. The doll’s stuffing was ripped, its fluffy arms or legs twisting, bright red ink dripping onto its neck, forming the shape of a hand. It was forced to dance by another pair of hands, as a different set of delicate, feminine hands gently held it down, painting a Crest on the wooden stage floor around it. The plush doll kept smiling, even as the stage changed to it’s gloomy red bedroom, moonlight pouring from the window and the doll trying to curl into a ball. Even as the doll met it’s childhood friends, collecting yellow pom-poms and stuffing them into a jar when they exit stage right.

Eventually, a cane dragged the plush doll away. It got snagged by something sharp, messily ripping the doll’s head off, stuffing littering the ground. 

An incomplete marionette replaced the doll, its body composed of regular wood and cleanly unshaved wood. A simple red cloth with a gold Gautier Crest sewn into it acted as a flimsy shirt. Messy red curls covered half of its round, cream colored face. Intricate black and wine red control bars held the marionette up, each carved with a title. ‘Margrave’ and ‘Margravine.’ It walked, ran and danced under the Margrave’s control. Countless headless dolls were shoved onto the stage without a care by the Margrave, a painting of a shimmering Gautier Crest hanging over the stage like an earth crushing moon. The dolls were charmed by the marionette, delicate wooden fingers pawing at the puppet, steadily tearing the Gautier insignia into its prone body. The Margrave, nor the Margravine did not stop it. The violent hand of the brother painted inky black words onto the wood of the puppet’s body, not bothering to hide a thing, only leaving its face unblemished. When the control bars were set down behind the puppet, its body was set down in a sitting position, blocky hands upturned, head lifelessly leaning into the mirror in front of it. Three glass jars were beside it, including shards of broken glass and a wooden lid. One of the jars cracked, black and blue brush strokes wildly sweeping the inside of the jar. Another jar was tipped over, dark red paint leaking out, carrying a white petal and a thin blue string with it. The last jar was tightly sealed, a rusted nail laying inside of it. 

The marionette was dumped into a corroded golden trophy and tossed into a fire. 

The stage became a series of towers, sand colored clay resembling familiar walls, white and red cut silk flowing in non-existent wind. Three rooms bloomed into the background as the stage shifted and rotated to bring the trio of rooms into the foreground. Two of the rooms were of low quality, the ceilings and walls decorated with glittering yellow strips of paper, or red and gold yarn strings. A cute handmade clay brown deer with golden antlers sat inside one of the rooms, while an eagle stood proud in another. Whoever the artist was took great care in making the deer, but shoddily made the eagle. The last room featured a _lot_ more detail, its own banner being made of shining royal blue silk.

Like the stage, its main attraction was also re-modeled. The wood of the marionette was painted a creamy pale white, giving it a porcelain look. The Garreg Mach uniform was lovingly re-created to the _finest_ detail, even unbuttoning the black jacket and rumpling the dove white undershirt. The sleeves were raised past the marionette’s elbows, exposing the round joints. Each strand of vibrant red hair, at a glance looked _life-like._ It was perfectly artificial. The marionette’s honey brown eyes were made of glass, light refusing to pass through. The puppet’s strings were cut and the control bars nowhere to be seen. 

The upgraded marionette was placed in it’s dorm room, packing a bag full of books and board games, throwing it out the open window. The puppet didn’t spare it a single glance, walking towards it’s desk and taking out a gray hardcover book. The puppet sat down in it’s wooden chair, turning the blank cover over. It was greeted by equally blank pages.

A brilliant set of midnight blue curtains closed the scene, opening to another. 

The marionette embraced a generic looking female marionette, then another, and then another, and then _another._ The red haired marionette would get slapped across the face, yelled at, threatened by broken hearts. Light filtered in its honey brown eyes.

The scene changed once more. The marionette’s eyelids slightly drooped as its eyes settled on an iron lance. It kneeled, fingers encircling the weapon. The moment the marionette properly gripped the pole, a giant blue cloth was thrown onto it, dark red streamers falling onto the material. The cloth was ripped away, shifting the scene along. The marionette stood in front of a prone stuffed lion plush, losing an eye to a steel sword. The puppet lost an arm to an axe, a leg to a Thoron. Red paint dripped from its wounds, spilling onto the scratchy green floor. The marionette fell over, covering the lion plush with its broken body. 

Another curtain call. The marionette strolled along the high rise footbridge of Garreg Mach, idly watching white and black wooden pegasus float by. They were connected to a thin string. The marionette came to a stop, hunching over, arms leaning against the brick railing. Its eyes glanced away from the pegasus, staring downward. It limply outstretched an arm over the railing, taking out a spare shiny gold button from its uniform jacket. The marionette tossed the button over, watching it fall and shatter upon hitting the ground below. It kept staring, kept wondering how _easy_ it would be to take a swan dive off the bridge. The darkness shrouding its eyes cleared up, then. The marionette lifted its head, five images appearing above the stage.

Tiny and soft pale fingers lightly brushed red stringy hair, patting the plush doll’s head, treating it with such sweet care.

Those same hands trembling, frantically covering the frozen plush doll with a fluffy teal scarf and removing cotton balls from the doll’s skin. Tears fell from the stage, landing onto the doll’s face.

The plush doll removed its felt red heart, placing it into waiting palms. A right hand gently closed over the heart, drawing away from the stage. A left returned a short time later, trading a stuffed black cat.

The hands lost its chubby baby fat as they appeared back on the stage, not a single movement was wasted, always sharp with a hint of anger. A right pinkie finger wrapped around the blocky hand of the incomplete puppet. The left hand loosely clutched a rusted nail dipped in blood. Instead of a closing curtain, the scene ended with an abrupt burst of flames, devouring the stage, dying screams and frantic shouts ringing from the shattered window behind them.

The marionette feebly reached for slim, calloused hands, running after them and tripping for its efforts. Before it could fall onto the stage floor, the hands quickly caught the puppet, hissing a soft ‘idiot’ from above the stage. The hands set the marionette in a sitting position, placing it on the stage. The hands slightly manhandled the puppet as if they didn’t have any patience. To soften the blow, a thumb lightly brushed against the puppet’s paper white cheek. Despite the hands being clean, a small blue streak of paint was left in the thumb’s wake.

The five images were draped over by transparent red curtains and the stage morphed for a final time. The arts and crafts supplies were replaced with their real life counterparts, the stage now a massive room with wooden floorboards and rows of tables. Towering bookshelves lined the walls. Large candlesticks lit up the room, two for each table. Strangely, only one person sat by a table, surrounded by a stack of books and their own notes. Even stranger, the person sitting all alone in the library was _not_ Claude von Riegan. It was Felix Hugo Fraldarius. The boy crossed his arms on the table, already fast asleep. His name left someone else’s lips, each call ending in a questioning tone. That was, until the owner of the voice found him.

Sylvain cracked a bemused smile, eyeing the sea of books with a raised eyebrow. The library would be the very _last_ place he’d thought to look. Felix and libraries tended not to go together, especially not in the same sentence. He took his eyes off the alarming amount of books, outright ignoring the minor notes and series of little charts on the papers. As curious as Sylvain was, whatever Felix was doing wasn’t his business.

Although.

Felix’s behavior was odd in a way Sylvain couldn’t quite place. He, of course, bugged Felix about it. And, Felix, of course, clammed up, getting annoyed.

There was one incident that _scared_ Sylvain, though. Maybe he pushed too hard out of worry, maybe he said the wrong thing, Sylvain wasn’t sure. They were in the training grounds, Felix’s second home since the start of the school year. Sylvain watched Felix hack at a training dummy, the strikes a little more lethal than necessary. Sylvain thought Felix was _angry,_ maybe he had a bad run in with His Highness, but then again _every_ encounter with Dimitri ended with Felix agitated. But, taking one glance at Felix revealed that Sylvain’s theory was incorrect. Felix was tense in some areas, namely his shoulders, but each slice and stab with his wooden blade was even. Precise.

Sylvain said some words and Felix stilled like a startled deer, tightly clenching his right hand over the hilt of the wooden sword. His entire frame trembled, his breaths collapsed onto each other, fracturing as he just gave up trying to breathe evenly. He sniffled.

Horror flooded Sylvain’s veins, turning his body ice cold. He rushed up to Felix, side stepping from the dummy to stand in front of Felix. He didn’t want to touch him, not knowing what was going through his head, not knowing what he would do if Sylvain dared to brush a hand on his shoulder. 

Sylvain met Felix’s eyes, yet the sullen boy before him didn’t look like he was _there._ His pupils were dilated, his maple brown eyes were unfocused and hazy. _Terror_ swam in them, as his eyes widened into saucers. 

All Sylvain asked was for Felix to breathe deeply. It took a while, but eventually Felix’s breathing evened out. His lips formed a tight line, eyebrows pinching. He firmly declared he was _fine,_ faltering with a surprisingly gentle expression softening his sharp features as he took a glance at whatever face Sylvain was making. With a few words, Felix merely told Sylvain that his mind wandered to the Tragedy. 

Felix’s eyebrows lightly twitched and Sylvain knew he was lying. Sylvain didn’t press him. He felt guilty enough.

Sylvain shook his head, ridding himself of his thoughts. Selfishly, he let his eyelids slightly lower, the corners of his honey brown eyes beginning to crinkle. A faint smile danced across his lips, showing nothing of plastic love. His gaze was as delicate as a budding flower, rebirthing and spreading with each warm spring, finding new flowers for each pink tinted moment, new reasons to fall in love. The blazing warmth in Sylvain’s eyes simmered down into a lukewarm cup of tea, transparent brown depths lightly frosting over with winter’s first snowfall. 

Sylvain knew himself to be a pathetic, greedy, selfish creature. He so _desperately_ wanted Felix, he wanted his love, he wanted his smiles he’d reserve only for the monastery cats, he wanted everything Felix would allow to give away.

Sylvain knew he just barely skirted by with his poor self-control, but he kept everything about himself perfectly under wraps, sure things slipped out from time to time, but he neatly folded those parts away and placed them into a box, closing the lid tight. He yearned for Felix, even just a scrap of his attention, irritated brown eyes landing on him and hurriedly glancing away, an annoyed scoff falling from his lips at whatever foolish thing Sylvain said.

Sylvain was stuck in a state of limbo, however. Not just quite fear, that emotion practically had a dance routine in the back of his head, slow dancing in the dark corners of his childhood.

Sylvain ruined nothing yet everything with Felix, tainting his chances by morphing into an insincere, bitter insect. A single chance left alone, the words he needed forever trapped in his throat and set on fire. 

Sometimes, Sylvain wondered, how good would it feel if Felix punched him and cast him aside for trying. 

Sylvain stopped his thoughts from wandering, lightly placing his hand on Felix’s shoulder, gently nudging him.

“Felix, wake up.” Sylvain whispered into the night.

Sylvain watched Felix’s eyelashes flutter, almost snorting out a loud laugh when Felix grumbled and turned his face away. A love-filled grin spread across Sylvain’s face, turning a little nostalgic.

“Don’t be like that, Felix. Come on, wake up.” Sylvain playfully chided.

Sylvain weaved over to the left, eyeing Felix. Felix tightly shut his eyes for a moment, slowly cracking open an eye and then another. He blinked, sleepily watching Sylvain. Felix looked a bit miffed about being woken up, mouth set into a cute little pout, eyebrows scrunching down at the fact Sylvain _dared_ to awake Felix from his thousand year slumber. He couldn’t quite narrow his eyes into an annoyed glare, but his attempt was down right adorable. Sylvain wouldn’t breathe a word, though.

He couldn’t.

“Sylie?”

Red bloomed across Sylvain’s face. The sound of Felix’s quiet, bone-tired voice filtered into his reddened ears, a little lisp and scratchiness joining with it. His own name cutely butchered and shortened was branded into his brain, a complete bastardization of the pronunciation. It sounded more like the word silly than his actual name, and Sylie’s heart was _full_ with overflowing warmth. His heart skipped and probably flatlined at how the ‘L’ in Sylie shifted into a ‘W,’ how the ‘Syl’ in ‘Sylvain’ changed into a slurred ‘Se.’

“That’s me. You’d do better with a bed, than sitting in a chair all night, right, Felix?”

Sylie only got a dopey smile in response.

Sylie was losing his _fucking_ mind, but that was okay, it was fine.

“Want me to walk you to your room?”

Sylie got a little bolder because he had no mind to speak of, apparently.

“Or do you want me to carry you? I’m sure I’m strong enough.”

Maybe the candle lights were messing with his mind, but Sylvain thought Felix perked up a bit.

“Yeah? Want me to carry you?”

Felix nodded and almost knocked his head into crossed arms.

Sylie hoped he got crucified for the sin of loving the boy before him.

Sylie merely smiled as he internally let out a high pitched scream, scooping Felix into his arms and carrying him bridal style. He became a bit more alert, his head snapping to his papers. He made grabby hands at them until he actually got a hold of each one. Sylie snuck a glance at one of Felix’s notes, furrowing his eyebrows at the content for a moment. Cursive, neat handwriting and all of the Blue Lions’ names greeted him. Their names were underlined.

‘Boar: Mania, anger, has nightmares, auditory and visual. Triggers?: Flames, screaming. Remire (why the hell hasn’t that happened yet?).’

‘Dedue: No. Enables the boar’s behavior but looks out for him.’

‘Ingrid: No. His death will stop them from talking or seeing eye to eye. Could help if a mediator is present.’

‘Me: Too combative. Too many masks. You did nothing but **babble** when Dimitri came back destroyed and reformed into a feral animal. You **left** and he died. You fought and you lost in Arianrhod. You can’t do anything for him. Stop trying.’

Sylvain tore his gaze away from whatever Felix wrote about himself, a nasty feeling sinking into his blackened heart. His eyes caught on the large capitalization of an entirely different name. A frantic, uneven circle was drawn around the name, nearly cutting through a letter or two.

‘ **CLAUDE.** ’

Sylvain spared a glance at Felix resting his head against his chest, instead. He huffed a bit, hiking Felix a little higher as he walked out the door. The quiet, dimly lit halls got to him, making Sylvain feel incredibly uneasy. After a fair bit of walking, Sylvain found himself in front of Felix’s door. Sylvain struggled a little to open the door with his hands full. Eventually, the door clicked open and Sylvain gingerly headed inside. Sword oil invaded his nose first, then the smell of home. Well, the Fraldarius estate, a little musty, a hint of pine and the scent of steel. Sylvain smiled to himself, strolling towards Felix’s bed and gently placing him over the covers. He turned on his heel, only to come to a rigid stop at the noise of protest behind him.

Sylvain’s eyes lightly narrowed, deciphering the small sound with a crumbling heart. It wasn’t a protest. The noise that leapt from Felix’s mouth was frail in a way it hasn’t been for years, a tell before tears would drown him.

Sylvain looked back.

Felix weakly clutched Sylvain’s bare wrist, dewy brown eyes boring straight into his soul. They seemed a bit glassy, a bit more scared.

“Don’t go.”

Sylvain swiftly turned to face Felix, grinning wide to reassure him.

“I’d _never,_ Felix.” Sylvain sweetly whispered. 

Sylvain hesitated and promptly stalled, much to the sleepy annoyance of his crush. He pulled at the blankets, and probably just to spite him, Felix chose not to help. Felix lied under his blanket, waiting for Sylvain with a smug look. Sylvain took it in stride, a huff of a laugh spilling from his lips. He climbed into Felix’s bed, letting the shorter boy cling onto him.

Sylvain slowly blinked and Felix’s candle lit room fell away in the dark.

Morning was all too quick to rise, spilling the sun’s light into the room. Sylvain found himself being used as a pillow by Felix, an arm loosely wrapped around his side, dangerously dipping near his waist. Sylvain carefully peeled himself off of Felix, slipping out of his bed. It filled him with guilt to leave such a haven, but he wouldn’t dare overstay his welcome. He already had since they were kids. The floorboards creaked under his feet and he held back a soft curse. He then muttered a swear when Felix’s voice resounded behind him.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Felix’s voice was rough with sleep, getting huskier and lower near the end of his question. Sylvain stood ramrod straight, mind blanking out for a second.

“You know, uh, just leaving your room?”

“Leaving my room?” Felix questioned with a tiny bit of humor.

“Leaving your room.”

“Will you?”

Sylvain didn’t have to turn around to see Felix’s eyebrow raise. He offered him a delayed and unsure reply.

“Yes?”

Felix scoffed, “Come back here, you fool. It’s cold.”

Sylvain recovered, mind fully rebooting. He turned around, flashing Felix an easy grin.

“Anything for you, Felix.”

It was one of the many lines he used to hook girls in, just a meaningless line off of Sylvain’s script.

But he meant it, _Goddess,_ did he mean every word. He would do anything for Felix. If his arms were ripped apart, he would still embrace him, whether it be with his cursed blood or jaded heart. If his tongue was turned into lead, he would still sing Felix’s name in his dreams. And when Felix no longer wanted any part of him, he would set everything ablaze, leaving not even his ashes behind so he would be erased from Felix’s memories.

* * *

Felix heard weeping faintly echoing along the walls. It grew louder once he stared at the chained stone door. The sobs were shaky, distorted breaths coming out sharp and uneven. Yet, the cries weren’t ungodly loud. The sounds were muted, terrified of being heard but wanting at least _one_ person to notice. 

It was Sylvain. Or whatever was behind that door. He was crying and no one else noticed. Perhaps the thing behind the door didn’t _want_ anyone else to know. 

The boar sharply exhaled, squaring his shoulders. Everyone else prepared, except Sylvain, who looked halfway between uncomfortable and blank faced. They made their way to the door. The boar _almost_ stomped like the madman he was before controlling himself to aggressively speed walk. He was angry, but had the spirit. For once, Felix gave his fury a pass. The sobs, unfortunately, did not. It became more distorted, sounding more like white noise than terrified cries. The _moment_ the boar’s fingertips so much as brushed against the stone door, the door flashed red and a mysterious force pushed him back. He stumbled, blue eyes flying wide open. The others, minus Felix attempted to open the door and got the exact same result. 

The sobs turned into frantic wails, shrieks mingling with the heavy white noise. A scared, high pitched voice piercing Felix’s heart like a lance blade.

“Fe, _help me!_ Please help.”

Felix’s mouth went dry as he mindlessly took a step. The screams and frightened pleas quieted to soft cries, haunting the room, as well as Felix’s mind. He felt Sylvain’s eyes on him. Felix was stopped from taking another step, Sylvain’s hand firmly encircling his wrist.

“ _What,_ Sylvain?”

“Felix, you’ll _die_ to whatever is in that room. You can’t go alone, you will _die_!”

Felix stared at the door, hearing sniffles and whimpers resonate from it.

“It’s not as though I’m unprepared. All I need is my sword and I’ll cut it down.”

A disbelieving laugh fell from honeyed lips, “ _Felix._ ”

“What _else_ can we do? No one is able to open the door.”

“ _Maybe_ it’s like that for a _**reason**_!”

Sylvain sounded-

He sounded genuinely _angry._ His voice raised as high as billowing smoke and violent flames. The pitch crackling just as a stoked fire would, embers idly floating. 

Felix breathed in. Breathed out.

“The only reason why it’s shut tight is because you refuse to let anyone _in._ ”

Sylvain tightened his grip, bristling.

“Don’t be a hypocrite, _Felix._ ”

The anger was swept into the background, Sylvain’s voice tightening into something cruel.

“Sylvain, stop talking, you’re just as hypocritical as I am. You risk your life for us again and _again,_ and here I am about to do the same, and you have a fit.”

“A _fit?!_ Felix, I don’t want you to _die_ for _me_!”

The sobs shifted into inhuman groaning, the voice of a younger Sylvain growing older, “It’s not worth it, please don’t get hurt because of me.”

Felix scoffed, “I’m not going to die for you. _You_ or whatever the hell is behind that door.”

“Felix, _please._ ”

The distorted voice of Sylvain carried along the walls, finishing the words left unsaid, “Please, don’t leave me. I don’t think I could take it if you died. I _can’t_ take it!”

“Sylvain,” Felix began as gently as he could, “I’m going to be alright. I won’t let myself die, I’m too stubborn and you know that.”

Felix briefly shook Sylvain’s hand away only to loosely hold it.

“Trust me.”

Sylvain didn’t answer, but the mangled voice did.

“I do. Please come back to me. Stay safe.”

White noise devoured the voice, almost deafening it.

“I love you.”

Felix glared the door down, ready for the challenge waiting inside. Sylvain squeezed his hand and let go. Felix took in a deep breath and unsheathed the upgraded Wo Dao at his side. The dark haired boy tightly clenched his free hand, uncurling his fingers and lacing his fingertips against the door. The chains on the stone door violently shook. Flames caught on the rusted chains, giving the chains a bright orange glow. The chains melted away, dropping to the floor. The door slowly lifted, revealing a decently sized room. 

Felix exhaled again, swiftly turning on his heel. He faced the Blue Lions. Not a single person looked happy. Fear paled their features, Felix’s childhood friends most of all. It was somehow both a comforting and crushing thought that they cared this much.

“I will _not_ die here.” Felix vowed.

The boar strode over to him, blue eyes haunted like a pitch black sky. He placed his hand on Felix’s shoulder, almost crushing it by how hard his grip was.

“You will not.”

The boar’s painfully ironic reply was phrased as an order, but Felix knew better. It was a plea, begging him not to join the ranks of the dead.

“Obviously.” 

Felix scoffed to beat down the reassuring smile worming onto his face. He crossed his arms, glancing away from the worried eyes pinning him down.

“I’m going to fight and _win,_ so stop worrying, it’s annoying.”

Their concern terrified him, drilling the possibility of him going into that room and _never_ coming out.

The boar’s hand fell from Felix’s shoulder. Annette mustered up the courage to cheer, trying to rid herself of her terror.

“He’s going to win no matter what, guys,” Annette cheekily smiled, or tried to as tears lined her eyes, “maybe all he needs to win is a cute dance routine! He _did_ win the White Heron Cup with flying colors, after all.”

Felix eyed Annette, giving her a flat look, “I am going to spill your secret and laugh in your face.”

Annette _screeched,_ frantically babbling.

“You’re evil, Felix!”

Mercedes nodded with an angelic smile, her reply akin to hell with how _embarrassing_ it was.

“I don’t think Felix is evil, but his performance in the White Heron Cup was absolutely lovely!”

“Mercedes, shut up.” Felix grumbled, heat rising to his cheeks.

Mercedes merely kept smiling, “No, Felix. Your dance steps were unlike any ballroom dance I have _ever_ seen!”

“That’s because I made my own dance! You’re wasting my time, stop talking.”

Mercedes had the gall to look sheepish, “Oh! I’m sorry Felix, we won’t keep you. Good luck!”

Felix sighed, turning back to the door. He entered the room and the door _immediately_ closed behind him.

How wonderful.

The room resembled any other of the previous ones, blood red walls and black marble flooring. The walls were shredded by massive claws and human scratch marks. There were a few holes, too, as though a fist punched right through. In the distance, a thin, sloppy heart was carved into the wall, the words hardly visible. Placed high along the wall were two head mounts and glossy red emblems of the Gautier Crest. The gigantic Crests were placed above the entrance and on the opposite wall. The head mounts were on the left and right of the room.

The shining silver head mounts was _Miklan,_ both as a man and the Black Beast. Miklan’s eyelids and mouth were stitched shut, and the Black Beast’s glowing red eyes were merely pitch black holes. 

Felix immediately glanced up and away from the disturbing head mounts, looking up at the ceiling. At the very center was a broken black glass chandelier. It was surrounded by hundreds of spiraling black and dried white flower buds. Felix set his gaze downward, softly frowning at the pristine, uncracked floor. Chess pieces littered the corners of the floor, some being neatly placed on a few stacks of burnt books. In the far left corner of the room there was a ripped and dirty plush doll set face down, the floor below covered in its own stuffing. The shock of red hair on the doll’s head made Felix wince. A royal blue carpet was laid out from the entrance and stopped at the opposite end of the room.

At the end of the room was a landscape painting framed with a rose gold sheen. It was nailed into the wall, right in the center. It was the only wall not to be blemished by horrific claws or any other marks. 

Felix gritted his teeth, narrowing his eyes at the painting. He tightly shut his eyes and squared his shoulders. With a drawn out sigh, Felix carefully marched over to the painting. 

It was them. Him, Ingrid, the boar. Sylvain.

It was an oil painting of them as innocent, happy children. Ingrid wore her hair down, dark green plaid ribbons on either side of her head. White silk was nestled on top of the ribbon, leaving a short trail. The silk was pinned by a small silver pegasus wing clip. Ingrid wore a long sky blue ballroom dress, which frilled up along the skirt. The neckline and waist of the dress was adorned with shining white-silver beads that crawled into the shape of a tree branch. The center back of the dress had two long strips of transparent white cloth. The ends of the twin cloths were a soft yellow and neatly cut to resemble pegasus wings. The Ingrid in the painting wore teal silk gloves, holding a bouquet for a brother long dead. Her dark green eyes landed on the white rose bouquet, smiling ever so softly. She was painted on the far left, and next to her was the boar.

Seeing the boar like this knocked the wind out of Felix. His wide, toothy smile, bright as the rising sun, dimples on each cheek. It made him feel sick because that smile was erased from the boar’s face for _years,_ tainting by a dark endless night, instead. The boar wore a navy blue tailcoat, tiny silver chains spilling across the chest and over shiny golden buttons. Starting from the right shoulder was a bright yellow sash that deepened into an elbow length caplet as it spanned over to the left, draping over the back of the tailcoat and a little over the boar’s shoulder. The sash had black and forest green braided strings neatly laid over it, with golden crescent moon charms and fluffy white and red pom poms tied to the ends. The boar’s eyes were trained to the oil painted sky above. Felix nearly lost his eyes by how hard he rolled them. It did _not_ take a genius to figure out _why_ the sash was present on the boar’s clothes, or what it represented. Even the _room_ knew, which was a humorous thought because Felix did not want to unpack _anything_ in this haunting place.

Felix stared at his own depiction with a twisting heart. Happy tears lined the little Felix’s crinkled eyes, spilling over ruddy cheeks. An excited grin stretched across his face, a frozen open mouthed boxy smile. His hair was bunched high up into a tiny ponytail, likely done by himself as it looked like a trash fire. Fortunately or unfortunately, his clothes had a better presentation. 

_Goddess,_ he looked like more a prince than the _boar._

The painting version of Felix wore a teal blue vest with a puffy white tinted blue undershirt. The left sleeve was overlaid with twin cut black squares, stopping short of his elbows. Small tassels were connected to the thin fabric squares, pinned by ruby red gems. The cuffs were slightly ruffled and tied semi-tight with a blood red band. A dove white cape flowed over his back, lined in dark blue. It was secured by a silver-blue brooch of the Fraldarius Crest. Painting Felix glanced to the right, tugging on a white suit sleeve. Felix pinched his eyebrows and narrowed his eyes in slight disgust, picturing his painted counterpart wearing glass shoes. He didn’t quite like his depiction, with how _fluffy_ it looked, and glass footwear really sold the idea that whoever the hell painted him took _way_ too much care and love in creating this.

Felix’s eyes trailed towards the last person in the painting.

Sylvain.

Felix’s throat tightened, fear crawling up his spine as he stared _directly_ into the oil painting’s eyes. Wide and round honey brown eyes gazed straight ahead, a soft little smile framing a slightly sharpened face. Baby fat still clung to his cheeks and other places. Sylvain still had his wild red curls, which struggled to be tamed. He wore a pure white suit and slacks, topping it off with satin white gloves that stopped just before his wrists, a teal tie and pitch black dress shoes.

Sylvain’s mouth moved.

No sound came out.

It was a painting so of _course_ it would be silent.

But Sylvain’s lips still moved, forming one word.

‘Leave.’

Felix jolted, raising his sword and backing away.

The damned painting’s mouth moved _again._

‘Stay.’

The painting’s sweet honey eyes slowly shifted a different color like blood in water. Deep, dark red. Those eyes lost its delicate moonlight joy, turning dull and lifeless as Felix remained a fair distance away from the painting.

Felix swallowed thickly.

_Stab the painting, stab the damned painting and get the hell out of this room._

Felix took a shaky step forward. Just with _one_ terrified step, the painting reacted. The dull red of its eyes took on a brighter shade. The painting mouthed another word. 

Felix’s name.

Felix’s face twisted as he came to a rigid, scared out of his goddessdamned mind, _stop._ He promptly shoved the fear into a box and slammed the lid shut because if he processed his emotions quickly, he could ignore them at the speed of light. His emotions hardly mattered in a duel, a fight to the death, which seemed incredibly likely as the seconds slowly ticked by. 

Felix just had to live with it.

Just like with Glenn’s death.

Which he hasn’t moved on from. No matter how despondent he became back then, no matter how angry he became now. No matter how he kept his mouth tightly shut, yet desperate to talk about Glenn, how _he_ feels because the boar and Ingrid already do.

No matter how many times he would open his dorm room door after a nightmare, hoping Glenn would be on the other side, _alive_ and sharply grinning, telling him he would be back by tomorrow evening.

Oh, he returned.

Without a corpse, leaving behind rusted armor and a nearly broken blade.

Felix squeezed his eyes shut, opening them after a moment and steeling himself. He warily marched back over to the painting. The painting’s eyes began to glow softly. Another soundless word spilled from the painting’s lips. 

‘Why?’

Large gloved hands _ripped_ out of the painting the second Felix got close and dared to linger. The hands shot out too fast for Felix to properly react. Felix held his breath, eyes growing wide in disbelief. The hands- _Sylvain’s_ hands lovingly cupped his face, gently stroking his cheek with his thumb. As Felix began to pull away, Sylvain’s hands slowly, so painfully _slowly_ slid down to his neck. The glide towards his neck was graceful, gloved fingertips just barely brushing against his skin, yet leaving blazing hot trails in their wake. A pointer finger lightly tapped against his jugular, patient and somehow playful at the same time.

It unnerved Felix, and for good reason.

The affectionate, delicate gestures stopped _dead._ The gloved hands around Felix’s throat squeezed. Felix’s body seized, alarm bells ringing loudly in his head. A withering, strained gasp fell from his lips. Instinct was quick to take over, Felix’s free hand uselessly clawing at gloved hands that refused to _let go._ The hands merely tightened their grip, a horrifyingly _dark,_ distorted and mocking laugh resounding from the ruined painting. It was _his_ laugh, _Sylvain’s_ laugh and Felix _never_ wanted to hear that twisted, fake chuckle _ever_ again. Felix struggled, kicking hard at the wall as if that would do anything, tears lining his eyes, black spots seeping into his vision.

Then, Felix remembered.

He had a sword in his hand.

Without a second thought Felix drove the Wo Dao into the painting. The hands abruptly let go, fingers curling and twitching in pain. Felix dropped to the ground, greedily sucking in air and choking for it. He shakily rose to his feet, eyes as sharp as steel. He quickly gave the painting a _very_ wide berth, glaring it down. The hands drew back, grabbing at the torn canvas. The hands easily tore through the painting, and a glowing red-eyed, unnaturally pale skinned Sylvain Jose Gautier climbed out, armed with the Lance of Ruin.

On the sides of Sylvain’s tousled red curls were spiraled pitch black ram horns. The left horn was broken. Wine red vines and thorns curled along his suit sleeves, pant legs, crawling near his neck and jaw. Bony wings protruded from his back, including a long tail. His tail idly whipped from side to side, but the quick, almost _violent_ flicks gave away his agitation. 

Sylvain’s forehead was a bit cracked like fine pieces of china, unevenly splitting. Black blood slowly oozed down to the bridge of his nose. 

Sylvain watched Felix, a nasty, _vicious_ sneer on his face, blood red eyes lethal with how freezing cold they were, a plastic smile breaking at the edges, not bothering to hide how giddy and wild it truly was as he _kept_ looking at Felix.

Sylvain brought a thumb to his bleeding forehead, catching a stripe of blood. He lowered his stained gloved thumb to his upper lip, bright red eyes shifting from a hail storm to something _lustful._ He trailed the tip of his thumb along his lip, staining his pale lip black. A pink tongue peeked out from his mouth, licking his lips sinfully _slow._

Felix stared dumbly at him, mouth falling open.

“I can’t _wait_ for that to be your blood, _Felix._ ” Sylvain purred, red eyes half lidded, covering up the clear threat with twisted excitement.

Sylvain’s voice was distorted, much like the laugh that rang in the painting, the door that begged Felix for help. 

The flower buds on the ceiling bloomed into roses, the petals rapidly falling as though it aligned with the rage rolling off of this imposter’s skin. The petals wilted as they hit the ground. 

Felix’s brain clicked back into place after minutes of a confused and terrified feedback loop.

“As though I would give you the chance.” Felix hissed in response.

Sylvain’s sneer returned to his face and Felix glared right back. With a flick of his wrist, and the Lance of Ruin’s bones twitching, Sylvain darted towards Felix. Felix’s eyes briefly went wide in surprise.

Felix knew this was a fight to the death and not a spar, but Sylvain _never_ made the first move against him, it was always a game of cat and mouse with him. Always calculating and reacting properly, not _this._

Felix quickly sidestepped, just _barely_ dodging out of the way. Violent gusts of air followed along the harsh, _lethal_ strike of Sylvain’s Relic. 

_The Lance of Ruin_ is _strong, no doubt about that. However, all I must do is wait for an opening. Wait for him to get in range of my sword and cut right through!_

Sylvain barked out a laugh, the corner of his lips twitching upwards. It wasn’t a nice smile. In the blink of an eye, he charged forward once again, changing tactics. Sylvain extended his reach without getting too close to Felix, the very tip of the Lance of Ruin slicing Felix’s cheek. The bones of the weapon glowed, red-orange fire and black smoke weaving through the still air. 

“Are,” Felix’s face scrunched up, “are you toying with me?”

Sylvain drew his lance back, glancing at the brand new cut on Felix’s cheek.

“Don’t I always?”

Felix seethed, “You _don’t._ ”

Sylvain rose an eyebrow, “You don’t seem to like that very much. I mean, I _could_ take you seriously, but, well, you’d die.”

Sylvain shrugged his shoulders, looking completely nonchalant. 

“Then _again,_ if you die here,” Sylvain closed his eyes, “I won’t have a promise to keep.”

“I _already_ told you. I am _not_ dying here.”

Felix glared daggers at Sylvain, outstretching his free hand and summoning a bright red sigil in front of him. It flashed, lighting up the room as a burst of dark blue electricity rained down on Sylvain. Sylvain grinned from ear to ear through the fading Thunder spell, still standing. Felix thought he heard cracking.

“Told _me?_ Oh, _sweetheart,_ don’t tell me you believe I’m _anything_ like that purebred _trash._ ”

The malicious, bitter tone of Sylvain’s distorted voice made the hairs of Felix’s arms and neck stand up.

“That freak of nature is just a _disgusting, revolting-_ ”

“You’re _wrong_!”

Sylvain cocked his head to the side, merely raising an eyebrow.

“It’s so very cute that you think so. But I know what you’ve said about me, so you don’t have to lie. I’m a good-for-nothing, aren’t I?”

Felix’s mouth fell open. He forced himself to get over his shock, glaring Sylvain down.

“I didn’t- I _didn’t_ mean to say that, just- you _aren’t_ good for nothing, okay?”

“Riveting argument.”

Sylvain gave chase, closing in the gap between them once again. Felix’s eyes got wider and wider as the lance blade _rapidly_ drew in. Sylvain aimed the Lance of Ruin straight at his chest. Sylvain gave him an incredibly small window to retaliate, _but_ Felix was known for being fast. Seconds before he would meet his end, Felix outstretched his left palm, almost touching Sylvain’s face. A red sigil flashed into thin air and Felix unleashed a point blank Thunder spell. The crackling burst rang in Felix’s ears, the spider webs of electricity seared his vision, turning it white. Sylvain _howled,_ a mix of a hysterical, barking laugh and a scream. His face cracked, the lower half having thin fractures, while the thicker cracks threatened to break off. Sylvain jerked back, hands shifting upwards. His lethal lance jab turned into an upward slice, missing Felix’s heart but forming a gash on his skin. His white-blue dancer silks were ripped to shreds, stained red with blood. 

Sylvain twirled the Lance of Ruin, widening his stance with a detached eerie grin. He darted back into the fray, the weapon’s Crest Stone shining bright in tandem of the Gautier Crest branding the side of his neck. Sylvain’s red eyes flicked to the glowing Crest Stone, lips curled into a disgusted frown. Sylvain tightened his grip on the Lance of Ruin’s pole, driving the blade into Felix’s stomach. The bones rattled and fiercely glowed as the blade hit its target, blood splattering onto the weapon and the floor below. Felix heaved out a shaky groan, shifting his legs to avoid falling over. Sylvain went in for another brutal strike. Felix’s Crest _sang,_ rising in pitch and almost shrieking, the Crest of Fraldarius flaring onto the back of his neck. Felix countered the next attack, slashing his sword into Sylvain’s chest. Energy surged into his blood, giving him a second opening.

“You’re in my way!”

Felix swung his blade, the force of the strike and his Crest slamming Sylvain into a nearby wall. Sylvain didn’t tumble, almost immediately righting himself and rising to his feet. His suit jacket and shirt was torn, revealing cracking porcelain skin underneath. Large fractures spread across his chest, falling to the floor and shattering. The sharp noises made Felix wince. His eyes lowered to the floor, staring at the broken pieces in disbelief. He glanced up to briefly meet Sylvain’s eyes.

“What- what _are_ you?”

A slow as tar smile pulled at Sylvain’s face, his eyes drenched in poison. He idly ran his gloved hand along the pole of the Lance of Ruin, choosing to tear his gaze away from a frightened Felix.

“Fears, doubts, anything negative, really. They’ve taken form as flesh and blood, a grandeur of an ugly truth.”

Felix’s eyebrow pinched, eyes narrowing.

“And how am I supposed to _beat_ you?”

Sylvain’s eyes flicked to Felix, eyelids lowering as though he was annoyed.

“Oh no, you won’t.”

“ _What_?”

Sylvain’s smile grew into an all too happy grin. He used the lance to point at Felix.

“You certainly _can,_ however, if you end up killing me, that _leech_ will die, too.”

The fear Felix felt was akin to getting thrown in a freezing cold lake.

“He’ll,” Felix took in a shaky breath, “Sylvain will _die_?”

Sylvain cooed at Felix, a placating frown erasing his smile.

“Aw, don’t be sad, Felix. The spoiled brat wants nothing more than to die, and by _your_ hands? I think he’d beg you for it.”

“Shut _up!_ I’m not going to let him get killed!”

“Ah, so you’ll die first? Much like your brother,” Sylvain gained a wide-eyed look, lips parting in surprise, “or _maybe_ dear old Rodrigue, hm?”

“ _Excuse_ you?”

“Anyway,” Sylvain carelessly shrugged, moving onto a different topic, “to make it _easier_ for you, why don’t I use a sword, too?”

Sylvain loosened his grip on the Lance of Ruin, letting it drop to the floor. Felix eyed his opponent, waiting for him to do _something._ Sylvain merely stood in place, smiling an insincere sweet smile. Felix scoffed and surged forward. With a deft hand, Felix sliced at Sylvain’s chest. Sylvain blocked the incoming strike with his right arm. Felix let out a tiny, horrified gasp, covering it up with a grimace as Sylvain’s arm broke apart and fell. Black blood spilled from his upper arm, dripping to the floor. The broken white shards tapped against the floor, binding together in the shape of a cruddy, curved sword. The inky black blood filled in the gaps of the weapon, devouring the blade. 

Sylvain flicked his gaze to his stump, watching black blood freely flow over the porcelain into the shape of an arm. It solidified as he began to flex his fingers, his white as a sheet skin now resembling his counterpart’s. In a mix of disgust and curiosity, Sylvain flipped his bare arm, tracing a gloved finger along his fragile skin. Sylvain shook his head, picking up the blade with a smirk.

“You’re a talented swordsman compared to me, so this _really_ shouldn’t be too hard, right?” 

Sylvain was mocking him, yes. He was baiting him, trying to chip at his walls in a way he never did.

It didn’t fool him.

All it took was one good look in Sylvain’s eyes, and Felix knew. Hidden under the waves of contempt and self-hatred, _something_ was there. It was akin to a lone ember floating in the air, the tiny flare fading away as quickly as it came.

Hope flickered in those blood red eyes, eaten away by the abyss.

“I’ve seen just how good you are with a blade, hiding your skill is pointless.”

Strangely, Sylvain preened at Felix’s version of a compliment before remembering himself. He held his blade with two hands, raising the hilt to his shoulder. 

“Ah, but your expectations are too high! They’ll crush me.”

Felix rolled his eyes, “Swinging a sword is the easiest thing you can do.”

The cold smirk was back on Sylvain’s face, “Maybe you’re right.”

Felix downed a concoction, and Sylvain allowed him, simply waving his blade around and waiting. Sylvain ran over to Felix, letting out a guttural roar. 

“I’ll do what needs to be _done_!”

Sylvain tightly gripped the hilt of his sword, stabbing Felix’s left shoulder. Felix grunted, seething as his silver metal spaulder shattered. Blood poured from the wound, dripping along his arm. Sylvain shifted the sword in his hand, lightly pressing the blade into Felix’s neck. 

“It would be so much easier if you just gave up, Felix.”

Felix held his head high, meeting Sylvain’s sword with his own and pushing it away.

“I’m not a coward, _Sylvain._ ”

The smirk on Sylvain’s face withered with a soft, bitter smile, “I know.”

Sylvain sighed, forlornly glancing at the floor, “It hurts me. It feels like I’m drowning every time I realize you’re still here. Sometimes, I just can’t take it, Felix. How can you care this much for something so- _something_ so _awful_?!”

Sylvain’s eyes flicked back to Felix, wild and desperate. Felix jumped out of range of Sylvain’s sword, knowing he would close in any time he wanted. Felix’s lips twisted, trying to gather his thoughts together. He deeply inhaled, opening his mouth to reply, but Sylvain stopped him.

“And there’s also,” a broken, tight lipped smile bloomed on Sylvain’s face, “how my heart beats for you. It’s pitiful, isn’t it? I know you’ll never want any part of me, but I still want you. I still need you. A part of me just wants to _take_ until there’s nothing left, or get hurt by you.”

“Sylvain.” Felix mournfully called, a light frown on his pale face.

The flower petals took their time to fall, framing a lonely figure.

Felix rid himself of his grief, fiercely staring Sylvain down. He pointed his Wo Dao towards him, holding the hilt in a white knuckle grip.

“Then. I’ll show you.”

Sylvain rapidly blinked, uncomprehending.

“I’ll show you how I feel!”

Sylvain was snapped out of his sullen stupor, letting out a sardonic laugh, “And you call me a fool.”

Felix winced at the numbness settling in his left shoulder. He held his sword in his other hand, charging for Sylvain. He lowered his aim, trying to go for a sweep attack. Sylvain simply kicked the blade away, countering the strike with a harsh swing of his sword. Felix hissed in pain at the new wound. Felix backed away, eyebrows furrowing. Almost immediately, Sylvain came after him, pointing his sword behind him and towards the ground. He sliced upwards, slanting the sword and almost hitting Felix’s neck. Felix luckily blocked in time, sparks glinting off the metal as the blades clashed. Heavy wind currents rushed past Sylvain’s sword. Felix pushed Sylvain back.

Not far enough, however.

“I guess that means I can show you, too!” Sylvain fake cheered, a bit too eager.

Sylvain freed a hand, reaching for Felix’s tattered, bloodied white shirt. He tightly gripped the loose material, ripping more of it as he pulled Felix close to him. Felix squirmed, stabbing Sylvain to try and escape. Sylvain let him, only wincing in pain as more white porcelain peeled away and shattered upon hitting the ground.

“I’ll ruin you, Felix.” Sylvain solemnly whispered, leaning forward.

Sylvain bit down on Felix’s lower lip, drawing blood. With a pained gasp, Felix parted his lips and Sylvain took the chance to plunge his tongue into his mouth. Felix pounded a fist onto Sylvain’s chest, tried and failed to shove him off. Sylvain merely let out a breathy noise, swirling his tongue around his like a man starved of contact.

Felix never imagined his first kiss with Sylvain to be like this. So controlling, wild and desperate. _Nothing_ like the soft, painfully sweet honey brown gaze Felix somehow managed to miss at _every_ turn. The kiss wasn’t delicate or careful. It was devoid of any warmth, any semblance of the love Sylvain secretly held onto. 

Felix refused to cry, instead he harshly bit down on Sylvain’s tongue. He felt blood spill into his mouth and the damn bastard _moaned_ at the pain. After what seemed like an eternity, Sylvain drew back, coldly smirking as he licked his bloody lips. He repeatedly kneed Felix in the stomach before tossing him onto the ground like trash. Sylvain raised his sword above his head, slamming it right down as his Crest burned into his bare arm. Felix frantically rolled out of the way, the tip of the blade grazing his neck. Felix quickly held his sword in his left hand, feeling pins and needles pierce his arm. He outstretched his right, watching a red sigil sear his vision. The buzz of Thoron crackled along his skin, flowing towards his arm and to the sigil. Before it could burst forth, Sylvain stabbed through the sigil, his blade sinking into the palm of Felix’s hand. Felix _screamed,_ tears falling freely down his face. The sigil shattered like broken glass, turning into red particles. 

Felix rose to his feet, ignoring the throbbing pain in his right hand. He tried not to wince and draw his hand away, holding his sword in his bloody hand. 

“If you don’t treat your wounds you’ll be down another hand.” Sylvain glanced at Felix’s hands, his voice airy and twinged in vague concern.

“Even if I drink another concoction, that won’t save me.”

“So you say.”

Sylvain rolled his neck, “I don’t know why you’re wasting your breath on such a failure. You said all you needed was your sword and you’ll cut me down, right? Why can’t you just do that?”

“Like I said, I’m _not_ going to kill you.”

Sylvain sighed, shrugging his shoulders, “I just want to be free, Felix. Can’t you grant me that, at least?”

“ _No,_ you _idiot_!”

Sylvain balked, actually rearing back.

“I just want you to _stay!_ I’ve _always_ wanted you to stay by my side, to keep me close, even after-”

Felix clicked his mouth shut, gritting his teeth hard enough to the point of discomfort.

“After what, _Felix_?” Sylvain sneered, bright red eyes drilling into his.

Felix swallowed, dropping his gaze to the floor. 

“The war,” Felix feebly began, tightly closing his eyes, “the war. I was a duke, once. We spent our lives together and died together like we promised. Then, I was a mercenary. Maybe the Professor took _pity_ on me because they started separating us and let me get married off to other people. I would have lost it and probably died. We were lovers again in the next life.”

Felix drew in a trembling breath, anguish painting his pale face, making him look years older.

“We were lovers. I got killed in Arianrhod.”

“You too. You died. In Tailtean.”

Felix kept his eyes on the floor.

“I denied the chance at seeing Glenn after I died. I wanted to see you, wanted to watch over you. And you died. I never got to reunite with you. So.”

“So.”

Felix stopped talking altogether. 

For a long time, Sylvain had nothing to say, either. The flower petals fell slowly in a large amount. They gently swayed, hitting the floor and withering.

Felix chanced a glance up, meeting Sylvain’s eyes. For a split second, his eyes shone gold, still eerie, but _far_ more human. His eyes shifted back to red, although the color was a bit duller.

“Then, burn until we meet again, Felix.”

Felix’s gaze sharpened, eyes narrowing into slits.

“ _No!_ I won’t die here and neither will _you._ ”

“You fought hard enough, it’s time to rest.”

Much like the Lance of Ruin, Sylvain dropped the sword, his eyes still locked onto Felix as it clattered to the floor. His Crest seared against his cheek. Sylvain slammed his shoe onto the black blade, shattering the weapon with ease. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, taking it off and throwing the jacket behind him. His fingers twitched, flexing as he raised them to his head. Sylvain dropped to the floor with a scream, writhing in agony. Eight thick black vines burst from his back, ripping his porcelain skin apart. Black blood soothed over the gaping hole, remaking the fragile skin with his natural skin color. The vines idly twirled or whipped harshly against the floor. The vines were tipped with dark purple thorns. The ends of the leaves and the veins were blood red. 

Sylvain shakily rose to his feet, the vines on his back slithering in the air like a snake.

“You think _vines_ are going to stop me?”

“They won’t, but I hope they do.”

“Hmph.”

Felix drank a second concoction, tightening his grip on his sword. In a split second, a vine lunged for Felix, briefly catching him off guard. He sliced through the vine, watching it wither into ash. Felix rushed towards Sylvain as the redhead regrew the vine. A trio of vines went after him, two of them wrapping around Felix’s leg hard enough to cut off his circulation. Felix was slammed into the wall behind him, spitting out blood. The vines began to lift him off the wall, flinging Felix into the giant Gautier Crest hung on the wall. The lone vine pierced through his upper back before firmly wrapping around his neck. Felix let out a choked cry, panicking at the venom slowly coursing through his veins, the lack of air in his lungs. Felix scrambled to grab the vine strangling him, hands sparking with electricity. It crackled loudly in his own ears, burning the vine away, leaving behind red spider webs along his pale skin. The two vines were caught in the crossfire, and Felix fell.

Felix righted himself as four vines rushed for him. He spun in the air, slicing them all in half as they drew in closer. His Crest flared on the back of his hand. Felix swung his Wo Dao once more, falling closer and closer towards Sylvain. The vines took longer to regrow, giving Felix time to properly strike. Felix sliced downward, cutting through Sylvain’s chest. Black blood spewed from the wound, spilling across Felix’s sword and clothes. Four vines grappled Felix’s waist, tossing him into a wall as the vines let go. He crashed into the wall head first, groaning in pain as he dropped to the ground. 

Felix raised his head, mindful of the throbbing pain and the blood pouring down his forehead. He stumbled, getting up and charging forward.

“Stop this already! You’ve _lost_!” Sylvain howled, eyes turning yellow once more.

Felix screamed, his voice raising to the heavens. Two vines swept low to the ground and Felix jumped over them, closing the distance between them. 

“Not _yet!_ I’m _still_ standing!”

Felix ducked to avoid an incoming vine whip, thrusting his arm forward to stab Sylvain. The tip of a thorn grazed his neck, missing his jugular. Felix hissed, jumping back. Sylvain frowned, regret painting a terrible picture on his face.

“It’s over Fe,” Sylvain murmured, “it’s over. I’ll give you a quick death, okay?”

“ _Bastard-_ don’t you _dare_!”

“Thank you and rest well, my love.”

Two vines shot out startlingly fast, harshly whipping across his chest and legs, bringing him down to his knees. Two more quickly found purchase around his sides, keeping him trapped in a deathly tight grip. Felix choked out a noise. Sylvain’s Crest flashed like a star on his skin, chucking Felix into a wall like he weighed _nothing._ He _sobbed_ upon hitting the wall, bruises festering on his face, blood dripping down the equally blood red walls. Tendrils closed in on his head, wounding into his hair and keeping his head straight. The vines tilted his head back.

The vines slammed his head into the wall.

Once.

Twice.

Felix’s ears were ringing. His head felt light. The walls and blood splatter seemed to mix together, spinning wildly.

The vines’ hold on Felix loosened. He fell, blankly staring at the wall. The heart carving caught his eye, shattering his own. In the center of the heart were two initials he knew well.

‘FHF + SJG.’

Felix crashed onto the floor, left eye steadily dilating as his vision blurred. He wheezed, struggling to move his trembling hand. His fingertips grazed the hilt of his sword.

_I have to-_

_I have to get up._

_Get up-!_

Frustrated tears lined his eyes, spilling over his cheeks and falling to the floor.

_Just get up!_

_I’m stronger than this, just-_

_Sothis, **please.**_

_Answer me._

Felix laid on the floor, half curled into a broken ball, bleeding from the head.

It was quiet for a while as the room simply fell away. 

Black dots flickered across Felix’s swimming vision, red hot agony seeped into his torn body. He couldn’t fight like this, so broken that he couldn’t even reach for his sword.

A small part of him wanted to give in and die. That part began to infect him. Crumbling through his will, shattering his resolve, ripping his determination into shreds.

Still, Felix fought to keep his eyes open.

Then.

There was a figure shrouded in golden-green light, facing away from Felix. The figure rolled their shoulders and nodded to themselves.

They looked over their shoulder, unmasking themselves as the light dimmed in intensity. 

It was Glenn.

Glenn, with his long wavy hair tied into a high ponytail. Glenn, with his gray-blue eyes crinkled at the corners. Glenn, with his armor that was sent home and buried six feet underground, new and shining against the light.

Glenn grinned at him, a sharp and fierce thing. 

Glenn vanished the moment Felix stumbled and tripped over his feet to get up. He avoided shaking his pounding head, instead he picked up his sword and glared Sylvain down. Felix used the Wo Dao for support, keeping himself upright.

Sylvain’s gold eyes widened, taking a flurry of steps back in horror.

“How,” Sylvain’s voice caught in his throat, it falling and shattering like a glass cup, “ _how_ are you still standing? _What_ are you?!”

“Felix. _Hugo. FRALDARIUS!_ The boar’s shield, _Rodrigue’s_ remaining son, and- _and_ your _best friend_!”

Felix heaved a breath, his voice getting louder, causing the petals to fall even faster than before.

“I will _never_ give up on you, do you understand me, Sylvain?! Never! I’ll fight. I’ll _fight,_ kicking and screaming until every drop of blood in my body _dries_!”

Sylvain curled into himself, the vines swarming his body, drooping.

“Stop this, just stop this. I don’t want this, I _don’t-!_ Just leave me _alone_!”

Sylvain tightly hugged himself, shutting his eyes as four more vines sprouted from his back. They violently twitched and curved around Sylvain’s body like a halo. He let out a keening sob, the vines shooting past him as fast as an arrow, zeroing in on Felix.

Felix’s eyes went wide. He forced himself not to back away in fear.

_Glenn didn’t die like a true knight._

Felix grit his teeth, staring directly at the vines threatening to reach and kill him all at once.

_Glenn_ never _died for the boar out of duty._

_Glenn. My brother died for what he believed in!_

_He died that night because he_ wanted _to protect him._

Felix dropped the Wo Dao in his trembling hand. He took a step before he could even _think_ of moving, gaining a running start _towards_ the impending danger.

_I’ll protect him. I’ll be his shield. Like I always have._

A vine stabbed through Felix’s left leg, another grazing the side of his neck. 

Felix’s mind _barely_ screamed at him about the stinging pain. It conjured an image to fuel him further.

A memory.

An eleven year old Felix shielding a bruised, _terrified_ Sylvain from a looming, angry shadow. Taking Miklan’s blows and fighting back, fear coursing through his tiny body, eyes shining with shed tears.

Felix yanked the vine out from his leg, briefly tripping over himself. He pushed himself, running faster.

A seventeen year old Felix storming away from Sylvain, leaving for the training grounds. The roles reversing, Sylvain being the one to chase after him, never straying too far from his side.

Vines sliced at his sides, one piercing through his stomach.

A young Sylvain greeting him at the snow-covered front gates of the Fraldarius estate, a crooked yet delighted grin on his reddened face, outshining the morning sun above him.

Three vines punctured Felix’s chest as he crashed into Sylvain, knocking them both down to the floor. He swallowed down the blood pooling in his mouth, smiling softly. Felix wrapped his arms around him, letting out a labored sigh. He squeezed Sylvain before freeing an arm to run his fingers through Sylvain’s red locks. The fight was drained out of the now yellow-eyed Sylvain, his body slumping forward in Felix’s one armed hold. The redhead trembled, chest heaving with each uneven, quiet breath. Sylvain cried into Felix’s ruined shirt, staining what was left of the material. Felix leaned back a bit, placing a featherlight kiss to Sylvain’s forehead.

“I love you, Sylvain.” Felix whispered, his voice painfully soft.

Sylvain sunk lower into Felix’s chest, screaming and bawling like a baby. The vines broke apart, withering into ash and disappearing as it hit the floor. New white yarrow flowers bloomed on the ceiling and dropped to the ground without dissipating. He openly wept, sobbing even harder when Felix still held him close.

Sylvain sniffled and slowly raised his head to meet Felix’s eyes. His glowing yellow eyes matched the warm honey brown Felix knew so well, although the color was ever so slightly off. A crooked, wobbly grin steadily spread across his tear stained face. 

A soft red light began to form over Sylvain’s body, starting from his shoes and all the way to his head. It flashed, light spilling against the walls and reflecting off the floor. With a burst, the light _exploded_ into dozens of twinkling stars, idly floating around the room and towards the ceiling. The room rang out with the sound of a child laughing. 

The stone door lifted and the Blue Lions barreled into the room. The boar fired off orders to Mercedes, healing Felix with a Physic the second she came in range to do so. 

Sylvain skidded across the room, dropping to the floor as he engulfed Felix into a tight hug.

“Felix, Felix, _Felix-_ ”

“I’m here, Sylvain, I’m here.”

Sylvain’s shoulders shook. He let his head fall against Felix’s shoulder. The redhead held in his tears, blinking them back.

“I’m so sorry, _Goddess,_ I’m so _sorry._ I- _Fe,_ Felix- I-I can’t, _damn it,_ I _can’t_!”

Sylvain choked on a breath, guilt festering in his voice.

Felix cleared his throat, staring up at Sylvain. Relief flashed in his tired brown eyes at the lack of tension in Sylvain’s shoulders. Sylvain looked _free._ He looked like a bird escaping from a golden cage, singing into the sky at the first taste of proper flight.

Felix then kept up appearances, scoffing and rolling his eyes.

“ _Sylvain._ If you’re going to beat yourself up, _stop._ I don’t want to hear it. I told you that I’d win, and I did. What I _do_ want to hear is that you’ll agree to sparring me whenever I want.”

“I’ll do anything for you, okay? _Anything,_ Felix.”

Felix smiled, passing the hell out in Sylvain’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> I might make a follow-up chapter with Shadow Felix next, so stay tuned if interested!


End file.
